


astralis

by lester_sheehan



Category: Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 06:44:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7089763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lester_sheehan/pseuds/lester_sheehan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The final night of Cicero's life. A short drabble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	astralis

On the final night of his life, we dined beneath the stars.

He lay on the couch, hands behind his head, and stared up at the sky. “Do you remember, Tiro, a night just like this?” His voice was quiet, distant, as though he was not just talking to me, but rather the world as a whole. “All of us were here then. Terentia, Quintus, Tullia,” he paused, eyes fluttering shut, then added: “She sat beside you, as merry and as radiant as she ever was.”

I did not speak. I did not know what to say. And so he continued, eyes roaming the constellations once more. "To think of all that has passed since then," he whispered. "Perhaps it is best that she is not here to witness it.”

We remained in silence for a while longer, then he swung his legs over the edge of the couch and rose to his feet. He paced the roof, hands behind his back, eyebrows furrowed. He was restless, nervous; he had all the mannerisms of a doomed man.

“We should leave,” I finally said. “They will catch up to us soon.”

Cicero made a murmured sound of agreement. “I suppose they shall,” he said, but there was no fight, no urgency, to his voice. He stopped pacing, lowered himself back down onto the couch, and placed his head in his hands. “Do you think it will be quick?”

I stared at him. He moved his hands and met my gaze. “I think it will be exactly what it is,” I said, and somehow, this seemed to please him.

The edges of his lips curled up slightly. “I suppose you are right again,” he said. A bird sung in the distance, hidden against the cloak of night, and he tilted his ear towards the sound. “I believed myself to have accepted death, whenever it decided to come.”

A moment passed. He wrung his hands in his lap, then stilled them once more. “But now, my friend, I fear that I was wrong.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but his next sentence halted the air in my lungs, as though everything in the world had turned to ice. "I do not think I am ready to die.”

“Then do not,” I said, a new determination growing in my heart. “We’ll leave this place right now. I shall get the servants to prepare the carriage. The couches can stay as they are, up here atop the roof; we have no need for them anymore.” And with that, I stood and made to move.

But, as with all things in Cicero’s life, it was not that simple.

“Wait,” his voice called from behind. I turned again to face him. “On second thoughts, I think I should like to sleep here tonight.”

I did not argue. We were both old, weary of the world’s ways, and he was not a stupid man: he knew the risk he was taking.

“Okay,” I said, and ignoring the creak of my bones, reclined on the couch opposite his own.

We did not speak until the morning. Every now and again, I would peer over to see if he was still awake. And no matter how late the night grew, I was not surprised to see him staring up at the stars, gaze fixed on some unknown, unreachable point. He stayed that way until my eyes closed in sweet sleep, and sometimes even now, as I lie in my bed, I think that I see him there.

I think that I see him a mere moment away from myself, chest rising and falling with each gentle breath.


End file.
